by Radclyffe
“Here, let us sit you down,” she said, though her voice was strange. I expected her to step aside and give me her chair, but instead she put her arm about my waist and led me to her bed.
“No, miss. I cannot sit there.” I stared at the white coverlet and the rich embroidery which decorated it. SW was stitched in roses and violets at every corner. SW. Sarah Warren. I knew each flowery initial keenly as I did all things belonging to my mistress. But I had never dared myself to imagine that I would ever be permitted to sit, there, upon her bed.
“I insist on it!” She pushed me gently so that my knees buckled and I found myself sitting on that embroidered garden. Then she stood before me and studied me, smiling. “I’m willing to bet that you have found my question a trial. I did not mean it to be. I just wanted to know more about you.” She touched my hair. “For you are so quiet, Mary.” She dropped her hand to her side. “I’m afraid you are unhappy. And may choose to leave me.”
I blinked at her. “Oh no, miss. I will never leave you,” I said more passionately than I realised. “For you make me happier than I have ever been!”
It was she who blinked now, her cheeks flaming as I watched her. What had I done?
At that moment a coal from the fire shifted and tumbled onto the grate. It hissed and smoked and she turned now toward the sound. I was grateful for it.
“Perhaps it is too warm,” she said. “I shall open a window.” And she crossed to the far end of the room.
“Miss!” I rose from the bed. “You must let me do that.”
“Don’t be silly.” She lifted the curtain and pushed open the casement. “It is no trouble.” A cold gust of wind breathed against the fire, and another jagged piece of coal hissed and fell into the ash. “Heavens, Mary, ’tis a restless house tonight,” and she turned from the window to look at me as I stood on the rug beside her bed. “Will you not sit again?”
“No, miss. I am recovered. The cool air has proved a tonic.”
She frowned. “Please sit again, Mary. You may have the chair if you prefer.”
I did not move, for I confess I did not know where to put myself. “I have not finished my duties, miss.”
She did not stir from beside the window, though the wind was cold. “What duties are these?”
I looked across to the fire and the copper pan beside it. Each night I placed hot stones within the pan to rub warmth between her sheets and take the chill from my mistress’s bed. I found myself blushing. “I have not yet warmed your bed, miss.”
She smiled. “You would surely have warmed it had you remained in it.”
I felt my heart beat like a soldier’s drum.
“There are no more duties for you tonight, Mary,” she said, her voice carrying the smile on her lips. “Except to tell me about yourself.” She stepped toward the fire and dragged a stool from the corner beside the hearth. “Please sit.” As I headed for the stool, she promptly sat on it and laughed. “No, Mary. Tonight you must have the chair.”
Again I found myself unable to move. “I cannot, miss. It is not fitting.” My cheeks burned. “Please, miss, I would have the stool if I must sit.”
“I seek another perspective, Mary. I would have you do the same.” She motioned to the chair. “Please.”
So I sat upon her fine chair, my hands restless in my lap, my back stiff against the cushion.
“Tell me about yourself, Mary.”
“What would you have me say, miss?”
“I am not asking for more than you have of me.”
I looked at her then. “I do not understand.”
Her eyes were laughing. “Now, Mary, you know everything about me. You know I am quite alone in this house except for yourself, Corruthers, and Cook. You must know I care not for the opinions of my peers, nor for their company, that my needs are simple. I barely go to town unless it is to go to Meeting or to buy a new dress. And I dare say I’ve not bought a new dress in a while, though I’ve a mind to go tomorrow.” She leaned forward. “And I’ve a mind to take you with me.”
I’d never been out with my mistress. I’d never been beyond the front gate since coming to work in this house. “Miss?”
“We shall both have new dresses, Mary. ’Tis time.”
“Time, miss?”
“Time.” She nodded. “Now, I insist that you tell me about yourself. Your family, is it large?”
I thought about Ma and my brother and sisters. “Not so very, miss. I have four sisters and one brother. We lost John and Susie three year ago.”
“There were eight children?”
I nodded.
She looked at me intently. “How did your brother and sister die?”
I pictured their tiny faces, grey upon their pillows, the exhausted sobs of Ma as she lay her wet cheek upon Susie’s forehead. “’Twas the fever stole the life from them.”
“Scarlet fever?” Her voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “Together?” I nodded again. “Oh, your poor mother!” and then, catching the look in my eye, “and yourself! ’Twas hard to lose them. I can see it. I am so sorry for you, Mary!” She took my hand. “How old were you?”
“Nearly fifteen years, miss. It was just afore I went into service.”
“And your other brother and sisters?”
“Mostly younger than me. Except for Tom.”
“Your father?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor, embarrassed. “He left us, miss. Found another woman. Tom took up men’s chores early.”
She blushed. “Oh.” Then she smiled and squeezed my hand. “’Tis a good thing you have Tom. I’m sure your mother must be a fine one to have such a son.” And then she stretched her fingers to touch my cheek so I would look up at her. “And daughter.”
My face burned. The place where her fingers touched my cheek was white heat itself.
“Is that why you came into service? To help your mother?”
I nodded. “’Tis easier on her to have less to feed, though I was fretful at leaving her. But in the years since she has been able to manage with Tom’s money and the little I send her.” I thought of Ma sewing by the firelight after the babies were in their beds. “Though I wish it could be more.”
My mistress sat then and looked at me, her eyes searching my own so deeply I felt a pulling within myself that I thought must be my soul. I cannot say aught but that I wanted her to look at me, wanted to stay still with her eyes upon me and her face flushed with looking. For she gazed at me like she’d never looked at any book. And the knowledge sent the blood through me though I thought at the same time I might indeed die under her watch. For my heart now hammered in my chest.
“Would you stay with me this night, Mary?” Her voice was soft, hesitant.
“Of course, miss. I will keep watch.” The wind was howling through the window and I thought she must be afraid, though my mistress had never been afraid before. “I will stoke up the fire for you too, miss. Bring up more coal.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to keep yourself awake. Not for me. I said your duties are finished, Mary.” She reached out to take my hand. “I want you to stay with me, not as my servant.”
“Not your servant, miss?”
“No,” and she brought my hand slowly to her lips so that her breath was warm on my fingers. I was trembling. “Tonight you are not my servant.” Her lips brushed ever so lightly across my fingertips. “I am yours.”
I could feel my heart beating so wildly I feared I would faint, but as she brought her soft, pink mouth to my hand, I suddenly felt the shame of fingers smelling of coal and the vinegar from cleaning. In horror I drew my hand away. “No, miss!”
She seemed startled for a moment and then her face burned. She dropped her gaze to the floor as though she’d been scolded.
I ached to see her shamed when it was my own shame which ruined her kindness. “My hands, miss.” I struggled to explain. “I am afraid they are so dirty you would think ill of me.” I held them out to her. “The coal, you see, has made
a home in them.” I pointed to my fingernails. “Your hands, miss. They are so pink and clean. Like an angel’s.” I knew colour had risen in my own cheeks. “I’m sorry, miss.”
She reached for my hand. “It is I who should be sorry. I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. But, Mary, you must know now that I could not think ill of you. There is nothing about you I find distasteful.” Her eyes darkened. “In fact, I must confess I am drawn to you. And tonight, Mary, I do not want you to leave me, for I feel, suddenly, as though I have come to understand myself.”
I could only blink at her words, but as she took my hand I found my fingers entwining with hers.
“Mary, may I wash your hands so that you’ve no need to fear that I will think anything but of the goodness in you?”
I nodded; though I knew it must be wrong of me to make a servant of my mistress, I did not want her to let go of my hands. She led me to her washstand and poured water in the bowl. Gathering the soap, she lathered her own hands, then wrapped them around mine, sliding her fingers across my palm and drawing circles across the top of my hand, teasing my fingers with her own, soft and soap-scented. And all the while she stood beside me, the warmth of her body making my own begin to burn, the sweetness of her breath as she ran her hands along mine, made me swoon with the need to wrap her tightly in my arms and taste her lips. But I could not.
And then her hands stilled and she took her jug and rinsed both our hands. I expected her to reach for her towel but instead she took my hands in hers and brought them to her lips. “Now they are roses,” she whispered, “to match their owner.” She inhaled and rubbed my fingers against her cheek before bringing them back to her lips. And then she did something which set my blood on fire. She kissed my fingers; then, opening her mouth, she took them inside.
I gasped. No sooner had my fingers discovered the warmth of her mouth than my own mouth sought the very place where they had been.
I cannot describe the sweetness of her kiss, nor the ache it awoke within my body. For I needed to feel the crush of her lips against mine. I needed to seek and hold her darting tongue, push my own tongue deep inside her mouth. She was not startled by my response. Indeed, she responded in kind until the press of our bodies sent her water jug crashing to the floor.
“Miss!” I pulled away. “The jug!”
She groaned and reached her fingers behind my head to pull my lips to hers. “Leave it,” she whispered as her mouth found mine. Then she drew me into an embrace which left me trembling, for I could feel the swell of her breast against my own.
“Lie with me, Mary,” she said, her body beginning to tremble. “I fear my legs are jelly.”
I let her lead me to the bed.
“Here, let me.” She knelt on the floor before me and unfastened my boots.
“No, miss!” I reached to stop her, but she caught my hand.
“Tonight I am your servant.” She kissed my palm. The touch of her lips to that place made my heart pound. “I am Sarah. No longer your mistress.” And she kissed the tender spot a second time. “Nor will I ever be again.”
Slowly she loosened each lace and drew the boots from my feet, kissing my stockinged toes until I laughed.
“That’s better.” She stood and pushed me gently onto her bed. She was already in her nightdress and I felt her breasts upon my blouse as her knees parted my legs. She ran her hand along the wool of my skirt. “This won’t do. May I free you of it?” I nodded and felt her fingers pulling at my buttons. In a moment I wore only my undergarments and blouse. “This too,” she whispered, deftly undoing each hook and eye. “I want to touch you, Mary. If you’ll let me.”
Again I nodded, and my body became a bonfire under her fingers. My hands sought out her skin until the ribbons on her nightgown were loose upon the bed and my fingers held the warm swelling of her breasts, my thumbs dancing upon their darkened tips. Oh, how she groaned then, and arched her body upon my own! “Mary,” she cried softly. “Oh, Mary,” she cried again and pushed herself hard against me until I felt a pulse between my legs.
“May I taste you?” she brought her lips to my ear and whispered. “Here.” She placed her fingers down to where the pulsing had begun. I did not need to answer. My body rose to meet her hand and she cooed in my ear as her fingers pressed against the spot. “How rushed your breath is,” she whispered. “How warm and wet you are!”
Her fingers dipped, pushed, and moved against me, and I cried out from the pleasure of it. Then I sought her mouth with mine and felt her tongue move as her fingers moved and I had to pull my head away for breath.
“My dearest heart,” she moaned, then moved so that her breasts lay firm upon my legs and her chin rested on my thigh. “I bet you taste of honey.” And then her mouth was upon me and her tongue became a thousand darting fish.
There came a quickening then, so powerful and new to me that I cried out like a child born fresh into the world. And she held me, trembling as I trembled, her eyes wide and startled as I knew my own must be. And she covered me with kisses, saying my name as though it was a prayer and I told her I loved her, for I knew from that moment I was her sweetheart and she was mine.
Now, when the wind howls at my casement and the candles on the mantel dance like devils, my heart quickens and I wait.
HOUSE OF MEMORIES
D. Jackson Leigh
I teeter down the steps and somehow manage to shove the huge box into the moving van. What the hell did she have in that box? Rocks?
“I’ve got to hurry or I’ll miss the cable guy,” she says, planting a quick kiss on my sweaty cheek. The kiss is clearly a ploy to distract me from the fact that the only thing she is carrying out of the house is her purse and two shoe boxes. “Can you walk through one more time to make sure we didn’t leave anything?”
“Just make sure he gives us all the sports channels,” I yell. You can’t trust cable guys. The minute they leave, you usually discover they forgot to do this or that and it takes weeks to get them to return and fix it. But she’s already pulling out of the drive. I sigh and turn back to the house.
The cabinets and closets are empty. The walls are completely bare. My footsteps thud hollowly on the hardwood flooring of the living room. But as I move from room to room, I realize the house is still full…cluttered with the memories we have made here.
The hallway reminds me of the first morning I woke in her bed. It was winter and cold. She slid from our warm cocoon and threw on a T-shirt. Just a T-shirt. I watched her hurry down that hall to adjust the heater’s thermostat and nearly drooled on my pillow at the sight of her pale bottom dancing below the shirt’s hem.
I realized I was heavily in lust with her.
The T-shirt was more erotic than the black teddy she’d been wearing when I had arrived the night before. I thought that little trip down the hallway was the sexiest thing I’d ever see.
Until the study.
We’d been dating for several months, and my weekends at her house were becoming a routine. I woke on Saturday morning alone in bed with the smell of coffee beckoning. I shuffled down the hall, smiling at a sudden flash of the T-shirt memory, then stopped dead in my tracks.
Hunched over the keyboard of her computer, she was wrapped in a short silk robe, her sleep-mussed hair sticking up in ten different directions and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. It was adorable.
And I realized I’d fallen in love. It was another month before I confessed it to her.
That memory was made in the living room.
We had spent the evening lying in each other’s arms on the sofa, kissing and talking and kissing while we pretended to watch a video of a Melissa Etheridge concert.
“I’m the only one,” Melissa sang as our kissing evolved into slow, lazy lovemaking. She was still trembling from her orgasm as we lay heart to heart and I told her that I was the only one for her, and she for me.
As I shake myself from my thoughts, my last stop is the kitchen. I am careful to check th
e places likely to be overlooked, like the little cabinet over the refrigerator and the drawer under the oven. That’s when I spot it. One of her favorite refrigerator magnets has fallen to the floor unnoticed. I turn it over and chuckle.
“If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen,” it reads.
Resting against the sink, I stare at the empty place where the dining table had been. I pocket the magnet and pull out one last memory, closing my eyes to relive it.
I have shed my shirt, walking through the house bare-chested to cool the flush of my arousal. I’m wearing my favorite baggy pair of soft faded Levi’s because I need the extra room. While she has been scooping coffee, I have been making my own bedtime preparations. Did I say bedtime? With her, it can be anytime, anywhere. The thought of it makes my heart race and my nipples harden.
She is in her pajamas—soft blue to match her eyes—and busy over the sink, filling the coffeepot and setting the timer so we will awake to its warm aroma while we are still naked, wrapped around each other, legs entwined.
I approach her from behind and press my breasts to her soft shirt. She’s taller and I have to rise up on my toes slightly to kiss the back of her neck. Her scent is warm and a bit tropical, like peaches warming on the branches of a Georgia orchard. I love her smell. It’s clean and feminine like her.
I wrap my arms around her and hold her hard against me. I love the way my body feels against hers. I’m all muscle and she’s so soft.
“I just wanted to get this coffee ready for the morning,” she tells me.
“I just want to get you ready for tonight,” I purr.
“Oh, yeah? Ready for what?” I feel the smile in her voice without having to see her face.
I turn out the lights and light a few candles around the dining room, and then check the back door locks.